


Lazarus

by scrub456



Series: Reversal [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, POV Sherlock Holmes, Reichenbach Angst, Reverse Reichenbach, please trust me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6325078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I… I don’t understand… Wh-what does that…” Sherlock turned John’s mobile over and over in his hands. He had heard what Lestrade said, but the words didn’t make sense.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Sherlock,” Lestrade whispered, as his voice broke. What he could not glean from the DI’s words, Sherlock put together from his tone, and the fact that tears ran unchecked from his eyes, leaving muddy tracks down Lestrade’s face.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>No survivors.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazarus

**Author's Note:**

> This is a new universe, separate from all of my other works. I haven't abandoned any of them, but this idea has been kind of working itself out for about a year and a half now, and it was just time I guess... after two months of relative radio silence.
> 
> This story does contain several bomb blasts, and I offer my apologies to anyone that may be affected negatively.
> 
> ********
> 
> My heart is broken for, and my prayers are with, our friends in Belgium. Know you are not standing alone.

Mycroft Holmes did not care for John Watson. At least not as one might be expected to care about the only friend of one's only brother.

The doctor was a decent enough bloke, though Mycroft made it a habit to never associate with "blokes." He knew what it was Sherlock saw in this deceptively unassuming man, Mycroft had seen it upon his first encounter as well. But the significance of the friendship eluded Mycroft at every attempt to understand. Most assuredly the good doctor had aided in protecting the younger Holmes brother on several occasions, and his military service was admirable. Impressive, really. Mycroft, in his position, was aware of multiple commendations that Captain Watson had, for the sake of his own modesty, not even revealed to Sherlock. Bravery aside, John Watson was not the cleverest of men (though based on several evaluations the doctor never knew he'd been subjected to, one might consider his actual intelligence above average), nor the shrewdest (how else could one explain the misguided loyalty in turning down Mycroft's offer of compensation in exchange for details of Sherlock's daily habits?).

Doctor John H. Watson was absolutely unexceptional, at least in matters deemed worthy by Mycroft Holmes. He'd had his opportunity to become exceptional, a covert offer extended by "the British Government," and he'd eschewed it in favor of tidying up after Sherlock and engaging in deadly parlor games with James Moriarty.

A distraction. That was now the distinction thrust upon John Watson by the “minor” government official. And as such, Sherlock had lost his edge. Mycroft had made his assertion clear, vocalizing on multiple occasions, that had John never crossed Sherlock's path, Moriarty and his network would have been neatly and precisely dismantled and disposed of months ago. If not for the distraction of this emotional bond, the elder Holmes brother would not have been forced into a devil’s arrangement with the consulting criminal, and the world's only consulting detective would not have been, at that very moment, standing on the ledge of the roof of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.

Alas, as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, no thanks to John Watson, there was no other way.

 

* * *

 

The scene was dismal and grey. Two men had stepped onto the roof of St. Bart's alive; neither would be leaving the way he came. Overhead the clouds grew heavy with rain, blocking out any hope of warmth from the sun. "Just as well," Sherlock thought to himself. "Rubbish day for a rubbish errand." Leaning slightly forward he peered down the side of the building. A brisk breeze caused him to shiver as the hem of his coat fluttered around his legs. He couldn't postpone his task any longer; conditions were still in his favor. Glancing at the sky once more, he steeled his nerves and cleared his throat.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" Sherlock hadn't counted on John's persistence. Every single variable had been considered and planned for. Every variable, that is, but this infuriating stubbornness. How could Sherlock have been so foolish as to think John would willingly stand by? Mycroft had severely miscalculated John's eagerness to blindly obey Sherlock's wishes. But if "Lazarus" was going to succeed, in all its convoluted glory, everything hinged on John Watson standing in a very specific, very carefully planned, spot on the street below.

Sherlock glanced behind him. James Moriarty's lifeless body lay there, the pool of blood, littered with skull fragments and brain matter, slowly spreading and congealing. This was the preferred outcome. This was the way it had to be. Moriarty had ended himself, Sherlock would jump, and with Mycroft's help, the elaborate plan would unfold, affording Sherlock the freedom to dismantle the consulting criminal's international network without interference. He would clear his name, all while saving the lives of Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and one Doctor John H. Watson.

John.

The doctor looked so small and alone standing on the street below. Sherlock returned his focus to the pleading voice on the other end of the line. This deceit he hated more than he had ever hated anything. The very thought of lying to this man who trusted him so completely tore at Sherlock's... What? His conscience? Did he even have a conscience? Before he had met John, he would have denied such nonsensical accusations. But now, he was different. He was Sherlock Holmes, friend of John Watson.

As he scanned the scene below him, a man with a bicycle came into view. It was time.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and braced himself for the task ahead. He planned his words carefully, and opened his mouth to tell his friend goodbye. The words had not even crossed his lips when the sound of an explosion tore through air, the repercussions of which caused the building to shudder below him, knocking Sherlock backward off the ledge.

Terror surged through every fiber of Sherlock's being. Had Moriarty's assassin grown tired of waiting? Had he figured out the scheme? Before he could stop himself, he bellowed John's name from the very depth of his lungs. He flew to the rooftop's edge and frantically searched the chaotic scene below him. The area surrounding the hospital was suddenly, unceremoniously, swarming with people. No one seemed to know what was happening, and all of Mycroft's men were scattered in disarray. "Where did all those people come from?" Sherlock pondered out loud.

Wait, no. John. Where was he?

"Focus, Sherlock. _FOCUS_." Sherlock's thoughts grew increasingly frenzied as he scanned the mob below, several moments passed, and an emotion Sherlock was not entirely accustomed to threatened to spill over. Finally he spotted him; the other man, the focus of his frantic search, lying motionless on the pavement. Sherlock dropped to his knees, and the very ability to breathe was ripped from his lungs. In shock Sherlock knelt there. How much time passed mattered very little. Minutes? Hours? Seconds? Ever so faintly Sherlock became aware of a familiar voice. The voice was near, but muffled. He forced his unfocused gaze away from the street below. Still clutched in his right hand was his mobile, and the line remained connected with John's phone on the other end. He realized a little too slowly the voice was coming from the phone.

John's voice.

"J... J-john..." Sherlock stammered.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me? There was an explosion. Did you see where it came from? I can't see anything from down here!"

Lest his emotions betray him, Sherlock rose swiftly, and moved to step back onto the ledge, this time to survey the horizon. As he stepped up, another explosion rocked the hospital below him, again throwing him away from the ledge. "John, the explosions are inside the hospital!"

"I can see the smoke now. I’m coming in there!"

"John, don't be an idiot! Stay where you are, I'm coming down."

"Sherlock, you know as well as I do that you're going to look for the source of the explosions before the fire services arrive and destroy the evidence. I'm coming in there so you don't get yourself killed! Besides..." John's sentence was cut short as the man on the bicycle clipped him, causing John to stumble back and his mobile to skitter across the ground. Good Lord, under the circumstances, Mycroft certainly wouldn't expect Sherlock to go ahead with "Lazarus" would he? Sherlock peered back down at John, and he saw his friend hesitate, throw a glance to his rooftop position, and then charge headlong towards the building.

"Stubborn fool," Sherlock muttered as he made for the stairwell. Upon opening the door, Sherlock was knocked back a step by a plume of acrid smoke. The fire was spreading quickly. John's astute deduction had pinned his intention exactly, he had indeed planned to investigate the source of the explosion. However, he decided for the sake of his own safety, as well as John's, he needed to exit the building immediately. Surely John would be on his way up the main stairwell now, so that was where Sherlock headed. The smoke was growing heavy, and the two men nearly collided in their hurried state.

"Sherlock! Have you heard from Molly? I didn't see her below. Should we help her?" John panted as he grabbed hold of Sherlock’s arm in order stabilize himself.

Molly. Sherlock had nearly forgotten. Her role in "Lazarus" was key, and he was certain she would never leave her post until she had fulfilled her duty, so loyal was she. But it would be catastrophic for John to see what Molly was preparing to do. John could never know. Sherlock's mind raced as he considered all options.

"Help! Help, medic? We need a medic over here!" A nurse emerged from the smoky hallway, she was covered in ash and a seeping gash crossed her forehead.

"Are either of you medics? We have patients over here we can't get out." Sherlock and John looked to each other, and John nodded, each knowing what needed to be done.

"I'm a doctor. Sherlock, you get Molly, I'll assist here, and we meet by the medic station outside, okay?"

"Agreed... And John, do hurry." Sherlock wasn't sure John had even heard his attempt at sentiment, as he had followed after the nurse into the murky corridor, but a glance and a nod thrown over his shoulder assured Sherlock that he had.

Moments later Sherlock burst into the room where, just as he had assumed, Molly was waiting. She was leaning out the window, gasping for fresh air, but unwilling to abandon her post.

"Moriarty made a grave error."

"Pardon?" Molly sputtered in surprise at the realization of Sherlock standing an arm's length from her.

"'Jim from IT' underestimated your value. He used you unfairly, and assumed that you were meaningless to me. Failing to be threatened by you was his undoing, Molly Hooper." Molly stumbled back under the weight of the compliment. Never had anyone said such genuinely kind words to her, and here the most unfeeling man in the world had spoken them.

"I... I..." Molly stammered. Sherlock rushed to stabilize her, mistaking her surprise at his words for being overcome by smoke inhalation.

"Quite right. We need to evacuate immediately." Sherlock tore his scarf in half and helped Molly fashion a makeshift mask with one of the pieces. As he tied the other across his own face, he peered into the corridor. Heavy smoke. No flames, yet. Door still cool to the touch. "We're going to the stairwell and heading for the main entrance. We're to meet John at the medic station outside." Before Molly had time to respond, Sherlock had clasped her hand tightly in his and pushed through the door. "Do not let go of my hand, no matter what!"

The smoke was so thick it took longer to find the exit than Sherlock would have liked, but soon he and Molly were outside, gulping breaths of fresh air. A light rain had begun to fall, and the cool moisture only enhanced the feeling of being refreshed. The crowd around the hospital had grown immensely. Fire crews were just suiting up in preparation of entering the building with hoses and axes. Explosives specialists were strategizing, and Sherlock caught sight of DI Lestrade orchestrating a team of officers to surround the perimeter, "No one else gets in here! And no one leaves! And for God's sake, do not enter the building! Help the civilians stay out of the way, and direct the medics to those who need help. Now, go! GO!" Sherlock had honestly never been so relieved to see the detective.

Sherlock and Molly circled the medic station. Three times, as a matter of fact. Each time more deliberate than the last. Still, there was no sign of John anywhere. "Where is he?" Sherlock growled in exasperation. Didn’t John realize his mental capacities were certainly better spent in the center of the action, pinpointing the cause of the explosions, rather than waiting idly on the periphery for the doctor to finish his dawdling? He wondered what poor pathetic soul had convinced the weak willed John in to coddling them, with the obvious intention of wasting Sherlock’s time.

"Why not try calling him?" Molly asked sheepishly. Sherlock blinked and turned his head away from her in order to hide the fact that the thought had not occurred to him. He dialed John's mobile and let it ring.

"Voice mail." Sherlock dialed again as he rolled his eyes in impatience. He heard a familiar tune somewhere out beyond the medic station. John's ringtone. Sherlock dialed the number again, and followed the sound, with Molly in tow. They shoved their way through the crowd until Sherlock was certain that they had to be right on top of John. With great dismay, Sherlock noticed the source of the ringing. It was undeniably John's phone, the phone that had been a gift from his sister. It lay there on the pavement, scuffed and face cracked, as a result of the run in with the overzealous bicyclist.

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock bellowed. He thrust John's mobile into his coat pocket and took off at a sprint to the last place he had seen the DI. Molly struggled to keep up.

"Detective! Detective Inspector Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled. The detective was deep in conversation with a small group of explosives specialists. To the casual observer it would have appeared he had not heard Sherlock's calls, though Sherlock suspected he was being ignored. "Greg!" Lestrade froze, and turned his gaze to Sherlock.

"Wh... Excuse me? Did you just call me Greg?"

"It is your name, is it not?" Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation. "I don't have time for this! John. Have you seen John?"

"He hasn't come back out?" Lestrade asked, making no attempt to mask the concern in his voice.

" _Back_ out?" Sherlock demanded. "You mean to tell me you saw him exit this inferno, and then you let him go back inside?"

"Sherlock, he's been in and out a few times. He was carrying patients to safety before the rescuers even arrived. I tried to stop him, even threatened to arrest him, but you know John better than anyone. There was no stopping him. He said he knew of one more patient,” Lestrade paused to check his watch and glance at the hospital entrance, “that was several minutes ago."

Sherlock glared into the eyes of the detective, and for the first time in his life, the ability to formulate a sentence escaped him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock..." Molly's small voice, in an uncharacteristically shrill octave broke through the rage clouding Sherlock's senses.

" _What?_ " He snapped, never breaking his gaze.

"Sherlock, you're hurting me," Molly squeaked. In exasperation he looked down and realized that he had never let go of Molly's hand. As he released his grasp, he looked towards the building, and back to Lestrade and Molly.

"I'm going in there." Sherlock shrugged off his great coat and handed it to Molly as he pulled the makeshift mask back over his face.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that," Lestrade stepped directly into Sherlock's path. The two men stood chest to chest, Sherlock’s icy glare surprisingly ineffective in staring down Lestrade’s determined gaze.

"I'd like to see you stop me," Sherlock hissed, his tone made all the more intimidating through the mask. Lestrade had taken his handcuffs into one hand, and had the other clinched into a fist.

"Wait! Both of you! Someone's coming out now!" Molly shouted. Sherlock shoved past the DI and ran toward the hospital entrance, stopping short as the smoke cleared just enough for him to realize this was not his friend, but a fireman. The firefighter was, however carrying someone.

"John? John!" Sherlock picked his way to the firefighter in time to see him rest his burden on a medic's gurney. He retched as he realized the pathetic bundle of a person was a young girl wrapped in John's jacket. "Excuse me; did you see the man who was wearing this coat inside the building?"

The fireman went stiff, and Sherlock found his stoic stance and ash smeared face impossible to read. "Tell me! NOW. Did you see him?"

The rigid rescue worker softened, and his voice broke as he spoke, "I did see him. He was carrying this girl to safety. He had just handed her over to me when the ceiling above him collapsed. My crew is working to free him, but he made me swear to bring her to safety."

"John." Sherlock locked eyes with Lestrade and the detective nodded, as they silently consented to enter the inferno together to aid in the rescue.

"Excuse me. Sir?" the little girl choked on her words. "Are you... are you Sher-sher... lock? The other man said to give these to someone named Sherlock." The little girl held out a well-worn gold watch that Sherlock had seldom seen John actually wear, and John's wallet, which he fumbled and promptly dropped as she finished her message. "He said to give you those things and to say, um, 'Vatican cameos.' Is that right? He said you would know. He was very brave. I was crying. He said he would come back for me, and he did."

Molly and Lestrade stared, stunned, as the robot of a man seemed to crack right in front of them. Sherlock clutched his chest. He had always thought the emotional expression of having one's heart ripped out was absolutely the most ridiculous notion he had ever heard of, yet this small child had succeeded in doing just that with her cryptic message.

"Greg, we... we have to go. Right now. We have to go. I have to go." Sherlock's pleas were whispered and broken. He lurched unsteadily towards the entrance, as Lestrade steadied him.

"Okay, yes, we're going in now. But you have to pull yourself together. For John. Hold it together," Lestrade commanded. Sherlock looked at him, grateful, and taking a breath, the men rushed towards the fully engulfed entrance together. As they neared the shattered glass doors, a team of firemen and explosives specialist burst through the smoke.

"Everyone back! GET BACK NOW! There's another device, and the fire is too close. We couldn't prevent it; it's going to blow any second now!" Sherlock and Lestrade charged forward, only to be thrown backward by the sheer force of the explosion. Sherlock momentarily lost contact with consciousness, but was startled back by the ominous rumbling and groaning of the building.

"She's going down!" someone yelled, and Sherlock felt himself being dragged away from the crumbling building. He tried to fight himself free, but the more he struggled, the more arms wrapped around him. He looked to his right, and Lestrade was unsuccessfully attempting to break the restraint of a crowd of officers as well. An unearthly moan preceded the collapse of the building. Debris and dust bombarded the men as the force of the collapse caused a great tidal wave of destruction to course over the crowd. The destruction was complete; St Bart's was no more.

Sherlock stopped fighting. He stumbled backwards and collapsed into the arms of the men who had mere seconds before been restraining him. His ears were ringing from the blast, but he could hear Lestrade cursing and barking commands next to him. Molly was somewhere repeating his name.

For a brief moment Sherlock forgot himself, where he was, why he was there. All he could do was gaze at the rising smoke as the flames continued to consume the rubble heap that had been a hospital. It looked like something from a war zone. War zone. Sherlock had been to war zones. In a fog, he remembered something about war. There was something he was supposed to know about a war. No not a war, but what then? A soldier? Yes, a soldier. The mind palace was inaccessible. What was he supposed to remember? A soldier. It didn't make any sense. Wasn't he in London? This wasn't a war zone. There were officers, but no soldiers. No soldiers anywhere.

He was aware of someone wrapping something around his shoulders. Molly. He recognized Molly, despite the grime that coated her from head to toe. The rain had effectively served as glue for the dust that had erupted from the building’s collapse, leaving everything and everyone now caked in the awful remnants of destruction in its wake.

Molly had draped his coat over his shoulders, and knelt beside him. She was talking, but he couldn't make sense of the words. He reached for the handkerchief in his coat pocket. Molly would want to wipe her face, he thought, unaware that he too was covered in the paste-like muck. His fingertips grazed something solid in the pocket. He pulled out the object, and turned it over in his hands.

A mobile phone.

John's phone. John. The soldier.

Vatican cameos.

Then, as if he'd been slapped across the face, Sherlock remembered. John was still in there. He tried to stand, but the earth fell out from beneath him. For the second time that day, Lestrade reached out to support the broken man as he collapsed back to his knees. Lestrade was saying words. Molly was crying. What was Lestrade saying? _Focus. FOCUS._

"...the fire is still burning too hot for rescuers to start digging. Crews are working to extinguish the fire. They don't think there are any more explosives, but they can't be sure just yet. But... uhm..."

" _What._ What is it?" Sherlock demanded.

"That last explosion. The point of origin was somewhere down that corridor where the crew was working to free John. None of those men have been seen, and we're getting reports that the monitors the firemen were wearing are tracking no movement in that area. Sherlock, they're saying there's no way anyone could have survived." Lestrade hung his head in an effort to avoid eye contact with Sherlock.

“I… I don’t understand… Wh-what does that…” Sherlock turned John’s mobile over and over in his hands. He had heard what Lestrade said, but the words didn’t make sense.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade whispered, as his voice broke. What he could not glean from the DI’s words, Sherlock put together from his tone, and the fact that tears ran unchecked from his eyes, leaving muddy tracks down Lestrade’s face.

No survivors.

It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. This was John. Dr. John Watson. Captain John Watson. He was strong, and brave. And smart. Smarter than most. No, John couldn’t be dead. He must have escaped by another route. He was probably frantically searching for Sherlock on the other side of the hospital. Sherlock’s heart began to race. Of course, how could he be such an idiot?

Rather more unsteady than he would have liked, Sherlock stood to his feet, surveyed the scene before him, and turned away from Molly and Lestrade.

"Where are you going?" Molly sniffed, as Lestrade lifted her off the ground.

“I’ve been an idiot. Surely John must have left the building by another exit. He’s probably around back. I’m sure he’s worried himself sick about me.”

“Sherlock,” Molly was crying harder now. “Sherlock, the fireman _saw_ John trapped in the hallway.” She pulled on his arm in an effort to turn him back.

“People make mistakes,” Sherlock hissed. “Kindly release me.” Unable to bear any more of Molly’s emotional nonsense, he took off at a sprint around the side of the building. Sherlock realized he was still gripping John's mobile. He shoved the phone into his pocket, and pulling out his own, dialed Mycroft.

"Sherlock, where are you?" Mycroft demanded.

"As if you don't know. I need you. Now."

"Little brother, I assure you your request is most impossible. With the events of the day, there is no way I can abandon my post now. Is it safe now to assume you have disposed of Moriarty?"

"You could say that..." Sherlock paused, he had reached the back of the hospital, and scanned the crush of people milling about. "Mycroft, I need you. John is missing." Mycroft was silent, but Sherlock could hear chaos behind him. Certainly the government buildings would be in an uproar. Was that sirens he heard? Were there more bombs?

Mycroft broke the silence. "What happened, Sherlock?"

"He ran into the hospital... he was trying to save a little girl..."

"The fool. Don't I always say, what good does it do to care? If he was so stupid as to..." Sherlock hung up the phone, stung by the venom in the elder Holmes' voice. He would deal with Mycroft later.

He quickly dialed Mrs. Hudson’s number. Relief coursed through his chest when the dear woman answered the phone. In all that had happened, he had nearly forgotten that her life had been at risk not so long ago. Mentally shoving aside the unkind words he and John had for each other mere hours ago when John presumed the woman had been harmed, Sherlock took a deep breath.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock began. He was promptly interrupted.

“Oh, Sherlock, did you hear about St. Bart’s? Isn’t it just awful? Who would do such thing? I’m sure you’ll be asked to take a look. You’ll figure it all out, won’t you dear? Of course you will!”

Rolling his eyes in frustration, and willing himself to maintain an even tone with the woman, Sherlock forced his way into her stream of rambling. “Mrs. Hudson! Have you seen John?”

“I’m sorry dear?”

“John. Is he there? Has he returned to the flat?”

“He was here much earlier, but hasn’t been recently. I thought he was going to find you, dear. He mentioned something about St. Bart’s. Oh. Oh dear…” Mrs. Hudson grew silent, but Sherlock could hear from her breathing that she was struggling to remain calm.

“Mrs. Hudson, I am currently at St. Bart’s. John was here with me, but we became separated in the chaos and activity. Would you do me a favor please? I have John’s mobile phone, so if he returns to the flat, he will not be able to contact me. You’ll allow him use of your phone won’t you?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson had begun to cry.

“Now, now, Mrs. Hudson. If John is still here, I will find him. I’ll return him to Baker Street, and you can fret over him then. But please, will you do as I ask? Will you call me, or have John call me, the moment he arrives there?”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson sniffled.

“Thank you,” Sherlock was overwhelmed with tender concern for the woman. He had never let her down before, and did not intend to do so now. “I will bring him home, Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock sighed as he disconnected the call. As he began to pick his way through the crowd, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“An… any luck?” Molly’s voice wavered as she asked the question. Sherlock noticed that she had diverted her eyes to look at the ground. She was clearly feigning support for his crusade; obviously she believed the death sentence that had been declared.

“Don’t you patronize me, Miss Hooper. Either you are going to help me find John, or you will excuse yourself from my presence,” Sherlock snapped. He could tell his words stung, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have time to play games. He had to find John.

“Sherlock, I’m here aren’t I? If you believe John is still alive, then it has to be true. You’re Sherlock Holmes! Of course you’re right.” Molly attempted a smile, but was unsuccessful.

If he were being honest, Sherlock would have admitted that his confidence in finding John alive was weak at best. He had heard the firefighter’s account. He had felt for himself the force of that last explosion.

He also had no doubt that John would have been right in the midst of the most danger.

But his heart wouldn’t allow him to accept it, though he knew better. He knew he was acting on sentiment. Words he had spoken not so long ago about sentimentality rang through his mind. “Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.” He closed his eyes, and shook the thought from his mind. He had to approach this search with logic. If sentiment propelled him, so be it, but he had to rely on his strengths.

Strength. John was strong. He was a soldier. A doctor, yes, but he had gone through basic training. He could be stubborn, and he was easily attracted to dangerous situations, but he was smart. And his military experience would prove to be an advantage. Sherlock had seen him stand in adversity too many times to believe that John would have given up without a fight.

“Where’s Lestrade?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

“He is still around front, organizing officers to help expedite evacuating everyone from the area. That’s partly why I came to find you. They barricaded off the entire block, and no one gets through to leave without giving their name and contact information to officers. They have explicit instructions to radio Greg immediately if John tries to leave.”

Sherlock nodded. It was a very good idea. The place was flooded with potential witnesses to the explosion; certainly someone would have seen where the blast originated, or possibly even the bomber. Most people would just be anxious to leave, so providing their name and contact number would seem of little consequence. Sherlock experienced a brief moment of appreciation for the DI. “What else?”

“Individuals who had already been admitted to the hospital, and are able to under their own power, are being loaded onto those buses,” Molly pointed to a queue of a dozen or so school buses that had only recently arrived. “They’re being transported to other hospitals for care. Hospital staff is taking record of each patient as they board. Some nurses and doctors are being transported with them, in case they need attention during the commute. Greg recommended we start there, since John was helping patients, maybe he made it aboard one of them.” Molly looked up to Sherlock, took his hand, and began to lead him to the first bus.

Sherlock was impressed by Molly’s sudden boldness. Ordinarily he would have attempted to put her in her place, but for the first time in his own recollection, he allowed someone besides John to direct his next course of action. Try as he might, he had thus far been unsuccessful in organizing his thoughts enough to form a search plan. There was an unsettling feeling of disconnect taking over his mind, and he felt that his head was floating somewhere separate from his body. His head throbbed and his neck and back ached, likely from being thrown back by the explosion. It was a nice reprieve, if only momentary, to allow someone else to think for him.

As they walked, Molly continued, “Patients in need of more emergent attention, and those who were injured during the explosions, are being transported by ambulance, and officers are taking down names and destinations before they leave. A few of those patients had already been transported, and Greg has people working on tracking down who they are and where they went. Hospital staff members not required for the transport of patients are to report to the medic station in order to be accounted for, and to be given further instruction. Rescue workers are helping in the transport effort, and fire and bomb crews are working on containing the fire, and searching the… the debris…” Molly’s stutter brought Sherlock to attention.

“That leaves us,” he stopped walking long enough to turn to Molly and offered a slight smile.

“Yes. Greg said we are free to talk to anyone, approach any bus or transport, but we must not attempt to go into the hospital. Not yet. It’s too dangerous.” Molly squeezed his hand.

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock whispered, as he turned to approach the first bus.

The two decided to divide and conquer, each checking six buses. They would examine the check list created as patients and staff boarded the bus first, then they would walk up and down the aisle, matching names with individuals. They had to move quickly, in order to get the patients on their way to alternate care facilities.

Their search turned up fruitless. Not one person even remembered seeing John. Sherlock and Molly spent the next several hours weaving in and out of groups of bystanders waiting patiently to be released from the scene, all to no avail. Dusk was creeping on as the area around the hospital finally cleared out of all civilian and non-hospital personnel.

Large spotlights had been set up to provide light for the continuing search and recovery effort. The early evening sky was heavy with dark clouds and the lingering haze of dust and smoke from the few fires that still smoldered within the hospital. The spot lights and flashing emergency lights from the law enforcement and rescue vehicles parked around the perimeter cast eerie shadows. The scene had taken on an almost ethereal appearance, added to by the low murmur of the voices of curious on-lookers and news reporters standing just beyond the barricades.

Sherlock was exhausted. He remembered instances in the past when he had thought he had been exhausted, but none compared to this. His head ached just trying to think, and every step was weighted down by the discouragement that seemed to grow by the moment. He had lost count of the number of times they had circled the hospital. How many people had they talked to? No, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. There was only one thing that mattered. Where was John?

A small sniffle broke through Sherlock’s contemplation, and he looked down at Molly’s streaked and dirty face. She looked terrible. Sherlock could tell she was as exhausted as he was, and she was trying equally as hard to keep her emotions in check. He had thought the fact that she had been leaning on his arm was her attempt to comfort him, but he realized she was simply trying to stay on her feet. With little resistance from Molly, Sherlock changed their course, and guided her to the medic station.

Nonessential hospital staff had been dismissed, leaving a handful of doctors and nurses to set up a makeshift triage, in the case that anyone was rescued from the hospital. Fire and rescue crews were taking shifts resting, and auxiliary crews had arrived from neighboring stations to help relieve the exhausted and dehydrated rescuers. Law enforcement maintained the barricade, and fielded questions and concerns from families who had not yet been notified of their loved ones’ whereabouts. Local shop owners had generously donated food, coffee and bottled water.

“Sit here,” Sherlock took Molly by the shoulders and directed her to the hard plastic seat.

“Where are you going?” Her eyes clouded over, as she reluctantly sat. “I need to stay with you. We have to…”

“Molly, you’ve been on your feet for hours. You must be starving. I’m just going to get you something to eat, and to see if I can find Lestrade. I will be right back.”

“No, I better come too,” Molly groaned as she moved to stand.

“Stay,” Sherlock pointed at her and spoke a little too sternly.

Glancing around the designated rest area, Sherlock didn’t see Lestrade, but he noticed the familiar form of Sergeant Donovan slumped in a chair, resting her forehead on the table in front of her. It was as if he could hear John’s stern nagging reminding him that she had been through the same day that he had. Exhaling deeply, Sherlock approached the detective.

“Sergeant Donovan?”

“What now?” Donovan snapped, without lifting her head from the table.

“Are you alright?”

The Sergeant’s shoulders tensed as she finally realized who was disturbing her rest. She raised her head, surprised by the question, and looked Sherlock up and down. She bit her lip before speaking, “I’m… I’m exhausted.” Donovan narrowed her eyes, “You look terrible.” She stood to her feet, staring Sherlock down. “You need to sit down.” It was not so much an observation as a command. She pointed to the empty chair next to her, “now.”

“No thank you, I just came to inquire after Lestrade. Have you seen him?” Sherlock turned to scan the area once more, but froze in shock as Donovan reached up, placing a hand on either side of his head, and pulled his face a few inches from her own. Stunned silent, and more than a little confused, Sherlock searched the Sergeant’s face. Her eyes widened, and Sherlock thought he read concern there.

“Sit” Donovan commanded. “I need a medic over here!”

“Excuse me, but what is the meaning of this?” Sherlock demanded. He was aware it was socially unacceptable to strike a woman, though he was morally seldom above such behavior, and under the circumstances he was seconds away from acting on his instinct.

Donovan swore under her breath as Sherlock ducked away from her. “Freak, you have concussion. A pretty serious one I’d say. I knew something was wrong, you were being too nice. Now, sit down while I get a medic over here. Seriously, where is everyone?”

“Sergeant, I appreciate the concern, but I am fine,” Sherlock lied. The truth was he suspected Donovan was correct in her assessment, based on the increasing severity of his headache, and the fact that he hadn’t been able to access the mind palace for some time now. As infuriating as it was, he was forced to think as a normal person would in this, the most urgent of situations. The fact that he was failing John constantly plagued his mind. “Please, have you seen Lestrade?” He was very near begging at this point.

Donovan gritted her teeth. “If I tell you where he is, will you let a medic examine you?”

Despite recognizing the obvious concern in the Sergeant’s voice, Sherlock exhaled deeply in exasperation. “Fine. I will submit myself to a thorough examination. _After_ I speak to Lestrade.”

Donovan rolled her eyes, and sat with a huff. “He’s been looking for you, about twenty minutes now. Tried your mobile, must be dead.” She suddenly sounded very tired, and there was a note of sadness in her tone.

Sherlock pulled the mobile from his pocket, and most assuredly, it was dead. He checked John’s as well. It too was completely drained. “Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

“Check near the main entrance,” and with that she laid her head back on the table. As Sherlock turned away, Donovan shouted after him, “Find a medic! If you end up with brain damage, it’s your own fault!”

In his haste, Sherlock nearly forgot about Molly. He quickly wrapped a peanut butter sandwich in a napkin, grabbed water and an apple, and sprinted for where he had left her. He approached her quietly, as she had dozed off, with her head resting against the wall. He was torn between waking her and letting her rest. With no time, and even less will, to make a sound decision he placed the bundle of food on her lap, and covered her with his coat in order to shield her from the chill of the night air.

With a last glance at Molly, Sherlock sprinted off to Lestrade. The DI was huddled in a group of firefighters looking over what appeared to be blueprints. Sherlock noticed, with no small amount of anger, that several men were preparing to go into the building, as another group was coming out. He should have been made aware. He was about to launch into a violent word assault against the DI, when he remembered what Donovan had said. Lestrade had been trying to find him.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock approached the group.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade shoved the blueprints into another officer’s hands. “You guys got this, yeah? I need a minute.” Without giving Sherlock a chance to speak, Lestrade grabbed him by the elbow and walked him away from the crowd.

Sherlock’s heart was racing; he could hear his pulse coursing in his ears. “What?” His own voice sounded suddenly haggard and harsh. “What is it? Did you find him? Where is he?”

“Sherlock, it’s not good news.” Lestrade closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “The recovery team found something and, well… I wanted you to identify it before anything else happens.”

Fighting the urge to punch Lestrade and scream profanities at him, Sherlock swallowed hard. “What is it? Show me.”

Without a word to Sherlock, Lestrade turned and walked to where the main entrance had been. He clicked on his torch, and motioned to another officer to hand his torch over to Sherlock. As he stepped across the threshold into the charred debris, he shouted, “Clear the floor!” and the group of firefighters who had been inspecting what was left of the corridor trickled slowly past Sherlock. Most kept their heads down as they passed, but a few cast sympathetic sideways glances. Sherlock struggled with a very uneasy feeling as he clicked his torch on.

He stepped carefully to catch up with Lestrade. The two took their time stepping over collapsed walls, and ducking under fallen beams, for several metres. The going was so excruciatingly slow. They came to a stop before yet another blackened heap of beams and crumbled brick. It looked very much like all the others they had bypassed.

“What am I looking at?” Sherlock asked. He looked at his companion for the first time in the darkness. In the shadows cast by the large spot lights, and despite the unsuccessful attempt to scrub away caked on layers of the day’s grime, the color had drained from Lestrade’s face. He suddenly looked ten years older, and exhausted beyond recognition. Sherlock wasn’t sure how it was the DI was still standing upright.

“There,” Lestrade pointed the beam of his light into the nearest pile. The flash glinted off of something metallic. “I need that object identified. I need you, Sherlock, to tell me what that is.” His voice was heavy with emotion.

Sherlock slowly approached the heap. “I’ll need to pick it up, is that okay? I won’t incur the wrath of Anderson?”

“Just… _Carefully_ …” Lestrade’s voice was barely above a whisper.

With some effort, Sherlock was able to get his hand on the metal object, and work it free from its charred prison. The weight felt familiar, but something was off. No sooner had he shone his light on the object in his hand did he drop both, turn from the scene and retch. It had been so long since he had had anything to eat or drink, all he could do was dry heave, but he couldn’t stop the reflex. His head screamed in agony, the pain exacerbated by the understanding of what he had just seen.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade placed his hand on the broken man’s back. Sherlock wrenched himself away.

“Air,” he rasped, “I need air.” He turned, and stumbling over debris in the darkness, ran out into the night, just beyond the crowd of waiting firefighters, and fell to his knees. Gasping for air, he clawed at his shirt to undo the top buttons. He was suffocating.

He heard Lestrade behind him, but he refused to acknowledge the other man’s presence.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice was full of sorrow, yet Sherlock detected an almost parental sternness. “Look at me, Sherlock. I need you to identify this object.”

“I… can’t. I-I’ve never seen that before in my life,” Sherlock lied. If he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be true.

“We both know that’s not the truth. Sherlock, give it another look. You have to. If you don’t, someone else will identify it, and do you really want someone else to tell you what you already know?” Sherlock hated Lestrade’s compassionate tone, the reason and logic behind his words, and his very being shook with anger because of what the DI asked of him.

Sitting on the ground, Sherlock accepted a torch, and then took the object in his other hand. It was undeniable. Besides being slightly warped from the heat, this was John’s gun. The Sig, his service weapon from the military. They were illegal for civilians to use or own. He wasn’t sure how John had retained his gun, but he had. It was the one possession he guarded most highly. He would never have left it laying anywhere unattended. And Sherlock had pulled it from near the bottom of a heap of charred ruins.

Turning the gun in his hand, he noticed a clump of burnt wool yarn caught in the trigger. It was scorched, but Sherlock was certain it matched the jumper John had been wearing that day. He inhaled sharply as he noticed a key had left an impression in the melted grip of the weapon.

“It’s his,” Sherlock looked up at Lestrade. He knew what the DI needed from him, but he didn’t know if he could deliver. He sat there on the ground, shivering. He could feel the chill of the air, though he wasn’t cold. He wasn’t hot. He wasn’t anything. There was nothing to f eel. So he just sat there shaking because he couldn’t control himself. He couldn’t control anything. He had tried to manipulate Moriarty, and control the world as he knew it, and it backfired. John was dead, and it was his fault.

“Sherlock?” Molly and Sergeant Donovan approached slowly as they noticed the man on the ground. He looked small, and weak. “Are you…” Molly’s words trailed off as she saw what he held in his hand, and her eyes filled with tears. Despite herself, Donovan’s hand instinctively flew to cover her mouth.

With head bowed, as if in prayer, Sherlock confirmed what Lestrade had already suspected. With raspy voice, and much effort, he forced himself to say the words, “It’s John’s gun.” He limply handed it to the DI, and continued. “That’s, uhm… That’s a piece of yarn from the jumper he was wearing. And if you use that… that key mark as a mold, the resulting key will unlock 221b Baker Street. He never… John seldom let that gun out of his sight. If… if it was in that rubble… so was he.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice cracked as he stifled a sob. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry. Do you hear me? I’m sorry I made you do that, but I needed you to see for yourself.” Lestrade dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Molly draped Sherlock’s coat around his shoulders, and moved as if to sit next to him. Sergeant Donovan was calling for a medic. Suddenly it was all too much. Even out in the night air he felt immensely claustrophobic. Pushing away hands that tried to help him, he stood up and glanced back at the ruins of St. Bart’s. An emotion began to rise in his chest. What was it? Not sorrow. Rage. Fierce and consuming, as he had never experienced before. It was boiling up, and he couldn’t stay there any longer.

"I am going to end the men who did this,” Sherlock growled. “And don't you try to get in my way," with narrowed eyes, he turned to Lestrade.

"I wouldn't dare." Greg extended his hand to Sherlock in a gesture of support that was not wasted on the determined consulting detective. "What do we do now?"

“John is dead. This is Moriarty's work. His network of terrorists and criminals has made a fatal error. They killed the wrong man, and I am going to make certain they know it. I need to get to Baker Street immediately. My mobile is dead, but I need to contact Mycroft. Lestrade, do you…” Sherlock was cut short by a piercing cry from a most unexpected source. He would not have been stunned silent if it had come from Molly, but the look on Molly’s face registered the same shock he experienced.

“STOP,” Donovan shouted. “You may have everyone else convinced that you are some sort of superhuman, soulless, automaton, but you aren’t. You are a man who just found out his best mate is dead. He’s dead, Sherlock. John is dead.” All eyes were on the Sergeant, and she stood there shaking with tears streaming down her face.

“I am aware, Sergeant.” Sherlock’s tone was soft, if slightly tense. Despite the rage he felt, Donovan’s words pulled at his heart, or what was left of it. He was conflicted, and the emotions that tried to overtake him were dizzying.

“Why? Why is he dead? Why him, of all people? And why aren’t you a mess? I don’t even like you, and…” Donovan couldn’t restrain the sobs any longer.

Sherlock looked from Molly to Lestrade. What would John have done? He inhaled and took a step towards Donovan. In a gesture that shocked everyone, himself included, Sherlock embraced her and whispered, “I don’t know.” He didn’t have the answers. He didn’t know why John was dead, when it should have been him. He thought back to mere hours ago when he had been perched to jump from the roof of the hospital. How had everything gone so sideways in such a short amount of time?

The two lingered in the embrace for only a brief moment, but it was long enough for Donovan to compose herself. It was also just enough time for Sherlock to realize the dizziness he had experienced was not emotional after all. “Perhaps I should see that medic now.” No sooner had he spoken the words than he stumbled slightly back, and grasped Donovan’s arms for stability.

A medic and Sherlock were loaded into the backseat of a patrol car, with Lestrade riding along up front, and the driving officer given explicit instructions to get to the nearest hospital by whatever means necessary. From the time of his embrace with Donovan, Sherlock remembered very little as the symptoms of the concussion intensified. The medic feared there may be lasting effects, and he wasn’t able to properly examine the wound, as Sherlock’s hair was matted with ash, building dust, and blood.

A few hours later Sherlock awoke to the sound of monitors beeping. The abrasive scent of anesthetics stung his olfactory senses. His eyelids were heavy with exhaustion and he nearly gave in to the desire to keep them closed. He struggled to recall where he was. Someone sat, slumped down and snoring softly, in the chair next to the bed. The bed was clearly not his own.

“John?” his voice was rough, his mouth was so dry and his tongue felt like lead. The person next to him stirred. Somewhere in the room the scent of acrid smoke lingered.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade swiped his hand over his face and scooted nearer the bedside. “Sherlock… No...”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. He was hooked up to an IV, and he must have been bathed, the grime and dust was mostly gone, though evidence of the day’s horrors remained caked black under his fingernails. He was wearing scrubs. Lestrade had showered and was wearing scrubs as well. He noticed two plastic bags on the counter across from him. One had his belongings unceremoniously crammed into it, and Lestrade’s filled the other. Those were the source of the smoke smell.

“I remember…” Sherlock didn’t need to finish the thought. Understanding registered on Lestrade’s face. The two sat in silence for a few moments. “How long have I been here?”

“Only a few hours. It’s not even dawn yet,” Lestrade explained. “The doctor wanted to make sure you rested a while. You’ve a nasty concussion, but nothing you won’t recover from. Twelve stitches and a lump on the back of your head. You were very dehydrated. Doctors want you to stay a few days for observation. But I…”

“That’s not happening. I’m leaving this moment.” Sherlock’s throat was raw from the smoke inhalation, and his head still felt as if it were splitting, but there was too much to be done. He could not remain confined in this room a minute longer. Likely, Moriarty’s network had already begun to dig their claws deep into society as anarchy would certainly soon reign in the fallout from the mastermind’s death. He pulled the cannula delivering fresh oxygen away from his nose, and attempted to peel the tape away from his IV, but his eyes blurred and his hands were trembling, causing his fingers to fumble. He coughed a string of curses, and prepared to grab the IV tubing and yank, when Lestrade’s hand clamped down over his.

“What are you doing? Just take it easy. I know your mind is a million other places, and this is the last place you feel you need to be. I get it, which is why” Lestrade leaned to glance out the door of the room to the nurse’s station, and dropped his voice. “It’s why I told them you’re in my custody, and that the minute you’re conscious I’m dragging you out of here and down to the Yard.”

“Wha..?” Sherlock blinked in disbelief. “They believed you?”

“They knew where we came from. I’ve got my badge and a constable with me. I just played the blustered, inconvenienced detective and mumbled some nonsense about explosives and surveillance. I think they believe you’re the bomber, actually.”

“I’ve been believed to be worse.” The statement caused Lestrade to shift uncomfortably in his seat. Sherlock sighed, relaxed slightly, and let go of the IV tubing. Running his hand through his hair, he paused long enough to finger the stitches and knot on the back of his head. Had all of this really happened in such a short period of time? Headlines that had run in all the papers, destroying his reputation, flashed through his mind.

He looked up at Lestrade. The DI looked exhausted. His face, neck and arms were covered in tiny cuts and scrapes, probably from the flying debris as the hospital collapsed. Sherlock imagined his face looked much the same, he noticed that his arms definitely did. Lestrade had a small line of stitches above his left eyebrow, and a few along his jaw line. He had been injured as they had attempted to rescue John. The dust and ash from the hospital had covered the evidence.

Sherlock filed the observation away in the sluggish, though finally accessible, file he kept on Detective Inspector Lestrade. First name, Greg.

“You stayed here with me?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Wasn’t about to leave you alone. Besides, I had to make it convincing, my guarding you and all.” The DI paused, and Sherlock knew there was more he needed to say. He nodded his head in attempted encouragement, and Lestrade ran his hand nervously over his hair. “I already know the answer. I just, I have to ask, please don’t be angry…”

“No, I did not blow up the hospital,” Sherlock sighed. “But I know who did. Rather, I know who arranged to have it done.”

“Moriarty,” Lestrade leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “You mentioned that.”

“Did I?” He genuinely couldn’t remember. Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. “He’s dead. Please, don’t ask me how I know this. His network is now the concern.”

“I believe you. Just needed to hear you say it for myself,” Lestrade nodded slightly. He fidgeted with the hem of his scrub top for a moment before looking up at Sherlock. “Do you think he meant to…”

“He was a manipulative, twisted, maniacal genius. When he made a promise, he kept it without fail,” Sherlock sat very still in his bed. He anticipated the next question as he read the confused look on Lestrade’s face.

“What does that mean? What promise did he make to you, Sherlock?” Even as Lestrade asked the question, Sherlock could tell the DI didn’t really want to know the answer. It was too terrible.

“He,” Sherlock paused. He waited for the rage to rear back up, to feel the surge of hatred course through his veins, but it never came. He didn’t feel anything other than a hollow, cavernous void in his chest. Moriarty had indeed kept his promise. “He promised he would burn the heart right out of me.”

Lestrade didn’t try to hide the impact the statement had. To Sherlock, the DI appeared as if he’d been punched in the gut, and all the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Oh. Oh God, Sherlock,” Lestrade had not regained his breath. “I… I…”

“Moriarty played at games and metaphors. He rebelled against the mundane and common. I… I had no idea he’d be capable of being so… literal, of killing John in an ordinary terrorist plot.” Sherlock paused as he noticed the horror on Lestrade’s face. “Sorry, a bit not good, I know. But that was how Moriarty worked. This all seems so… beneath him; out of character almost.” He suddenly felt very cold, and adjusted his blankets, though he knew the action would make no difference. His head began to throb again, and he pressed his hands to either side of his forehead.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay?” Lestrade snapped to attention as soon as he noticed Sherlock’s distress.

“Just a headache,” Sherlock replied weakly. He laid back and closed his eyes.

Lestrade stood, “I’m getting a nurse.” Before Sherlock could protest, Lestrade strode from the room. The DI’s attempt at confidence was weak at best; he may have fooled the hospital staff, but Sherlock knew better. The events of the day had crushed him.

John had been Lestrade’s friend too. Though he would have preferred for John’s full attention to remain singularly focused on himself, and despite knowing that he did in fact occupy the majority of John’s mental processes, there were bits of John that Sherlock simply could not, would not, relate to. Ordinary, everyday things that John cared about, and if John cared about them they must be important, therefore Sherlock had decided John deserved to have a friend to cultivate and share those experiences with.

He had mentally assessed as complete a list of John’s acquaintances as was available to him. It was an alarmingly meager list, and as such, he quickly and systematically excluded every candidate as dull and unworthy of John’s companionship. Upon reevaluation, Lestrade had distinguished himself as the least objectionable option simply because Sherlock was already familiar with, and had learned to tolerate, his particular brand of idiocy. Both John and Lestrade were men of rank and file, who cherished order, possessed elevated senses of morality, and who cared about and understood such mundane subjects as rugby scores and the order of the solar system.

Sherlock would never have admitted he was jealous of the camaraderie shared between the detective and the soldier, especially to Lestrade, but he knew it to be true. He had indeed been shocked upon the realization. And now that John was dead, Sherlock truly regretted the missed opportunities to further understand the man he considered his best friend. He had never actually regretted any of his own actions or choices before that very moment, and the sensation was so unpleasant that he entertained the notion that he had indeed suffered some sort of brain damage. He considered deleting the revelation, deciding instead to construct a firewall, safeguarding any and every detail and emotion, pleasant or otherwise, associated with John Watson. The data was now more precious than ever, and every effort would have to be made to preserve even the most insignificant quirk and detail.

Cataloging every detail of John's existence would take time. Time and energy. Resources Sherlock vitally needed for the task of burning Moriarty's network to the ground. With a determination that manifested itself in a silent sob and a dull ache in his chest, Sherlock slammed and bolted the heavy, reinforced door, sealing off the rooms dedicated to John Hamish Watson, until such time as he could dedicate himself fully to the endeavor. John's memory deserved his full attention, but first he had a job to do.

There was a commotion in the hall outside Sherlock's room, and he could hear Lestrade making a fuss, demanding the "prisoner" be released immediately as time was of the essence. It was a tantrum truly worthy of Sherlock, and he huffed in amusement at the effort Lestrade was exerting. The room would soon be swarming with hospital staff, and he would be released into a world without the buffer of John at his side. He rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes in an effort gather his focus.

The game... No. Not a game. Never a game... The hunt. Yes. The hunt was on...

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson placed the tea tray on the side table softly, so as not to disrupt Sherlock. He sat, still as a statue, in his chair, fingers pressed together under his chin, eyes glazed and focused on nothing in particular. Suddenly he started, focusing on this intruder.

“You made me tea?”

“I make you tea every day, dear. How else did you think it happened?” Sherlock accepted the steaming cup and leaned back in his chair.

“Today is the day,” Mrs. Hudson's comment was barely more than a whisper. She gingerly sat in the arm chair. John’s chair. His long ago discarded cane still leaned in the corner, coated in dust.

“Hmm? What?” Sherlock asked. He had heard her, but his mind was unwilling to accept what day this was.

“The memorial, dear. For John.” The memorial had been delayed several days longer than usual. John’s sister had not received the news well, and had nearly killed herself by way of alcohol poisoning in an attempt to silence her emotions. The extra time had allowed Sherlock, against doctor’s orders and Lestrade’s demands, to begin his hunt. He had successfully identified several leads and located a handful of lowest rung grunt men.

“You’re going aren’t you?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “Of course you are. You two were…”

“Associates. Flatmates. I solve crimes, and he use to write about it. We were what, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock winced as the dear lady gasped. He had not meant to snap at her. He knew the social convention was to comfort one who had lost a friend. Sherlock loathed social conventions. He never understood them. The more Molly called _just to check on him,_ the more Lestrade _just happened to be in the neighborhood,_ and the more Mrs. Hudson doted, the more uncomfortable he felt. Even Mycroft had stopped to express his condolences and inquire after his welfare, though Sherlock sensed he was not truly sincere.

“My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. As you can imagine, John’s death has been a shock to my emotions,” Sherlock lied, “and with the added stress of my own injuries, I am simply not ready to talk about it yet.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, sympathy on her face, and she dabbed the tears from her eyes. “I understand dear. If you decide you want to talk, you know where to find me. And I have a car coming at 1:00, if you’d like a ride to the service.” She stood to leave the flat.

“Thank you, but I believe I will find my own way there.” Sherlock closed his eyes and waited for her to leave.

He knew what people were thinking. They stared at him in confusion and disdain, wondering what was wrong with him. John was his friend. He was the only person, beside Mycroft, that Sherlock had ever let inside. And what was worse, John’s death was Sherlock’s fault. He knew they blamed him. Had he never invited John to join him on a case, John would have never been in harm’s way. “He would’ve been miserable!” Sherlock stated out loud. But try as he might, he could not express himself in sorrow the way everyone expected him to. Beyond the initial shock on the day of the fire, nothing even close to sorrow registered. Even Harry, John’s sister, in the midst of her recovery, had stopped by to console him (she had brought cookies -- they were awful). The man’s own sister, grieving in her own right, left the flat in confusion at Sherlock’s response.

There was an emotion though. And though it made little sense, Sherlock was energized by it, compelled to continue on. _Rage_. Sherlock had experienced it on the day of John’s death, and every day since. He often found himself lost entirely to it. In the few short days since the explosion, his microscope, several dishes, a mirror, his treasured violin bow, the alley cat outside, and two of Moriarty’s men had been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s rage. Lestrade had had to restrain him to keep him from killing a suspect.

It ate away at him. It kept him awake at night. When he did sleep, it crept into his dreams.

Mrs. Hudson leaving through the front door alerted Sherlock to the time. He sat still in the silence of the flat. A silence that had once been peaceful and calming now only served to magnify his awareness that he was alone. The bigness of the stillness thundered in his ears. Dust mites danced in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the glowing stripe cutting a diagonal slice across the empty and well worn armchair sitting in front of him. A cold, and now fermenting, partial cup of tea, bearing the emblem of The Royal Army Medical Corps, still sat on the small side table.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

He could use a cigarette, but Sherlock hadn’t been to the market, and John had hidden his last pack.

Exasperated, Sherlock slammed his hands down on the arms of the chair. He had to get out of this infernal flat. The silence, normally welcome, was deafening.

He swung his coat on, and couldn’t recall whether he had worn it since that day. The day John died. He brushed at the sleeve and flipped the collar up. Mrs. Hudson must have had it laundered. He twisted a grey scarf around his neck. His old blue one had been ruined that day. This one had been a gift. He had purchased it for John, despite the fact that John seldom wore scarves. He had, though, worn it recently on a case. The smell of outdoors and John’s aftershave still faintly lingered.

Sherlock wandered aimlessly through the maze of London. He found himself on streets where he and John had solved cases. He didn’t linger.

In the distance he heard a clock chime two. The memorial service would be starting. He made his way toward the church. He would be late. Just as well. He wouldn’t have to talk to anyone that way.

Sherlock quietly snuck in the door, and bypassing the photos and tributes arranged in the outer hall, took his place, standing at the back of the large sanctuary. The place was filled to capacity. Sherlock recognized Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson seated near Harry, John’s only family. He spotted the five people John had rescued from the fire, and their families. He chuckled when he noticed one young man had a broken nose. He was certain that was John’s handiwork, and not much deduction was needed to see the young man had had an attitude. His pleasure at his friend’s exploits was cut short at the sight of a young girl. The little girl who had given Sherlock John’s wallet, and had warned him that danger was near. She sat on her mother’s lap; she had herself been a fire victim. But her bandages were not what brought Sherlock pause. No. The little girl was wearing a man’s coat. The garment was filthy, and far too large for her petite frame. He recognized it as John’s. Sherlock had forgotten that she was wearing it that day. John must have wrapped her in it, to shield her from the fire.

Sherlock’s gasp was audible. Thankfully, someone had stepped to the podium, and no one seemed to notice.

There was what felt to Sherlock to be an endless parade of individuals, colleagues and patients recounting tales of John’s kindness, fellow soldiers telling tales of his bravery, and friends shedding tears as they bumbled their way through humorous anecdotes. Perhaps most surprising to Sherlock was when the list of John’s accomplishments was read. Why had he not known about all of those military commendations? His friend had been highly decorated, and Sherlock had never known.

And the commendations did not end there. A fund had been started in John’s name, to help rebuild the hospital. He was being awarded, posthumously, England’s highest civilian honor, the George Cross medal, for his acts of valor and courage in the circumstance of extreme danger. And who but Sherlock’s own brother stood to initiate the presentation.

While Sherlock was moved at the thought that such a man had considered him his friend, the whole pomp and ceremony was simply too much to bear. Who was this man, this John Watson? The most caring, most compassionate, most long suffering (Sherlock had proven that), most courageous war hero, who carried little girls from fires? And why on earth had he agreed to be Sherlock’s flatmate, and then tolerate his inane, infuriating eccentricities? John was his best friend, his only friend, and seems he had never really known him at all.

But John had known him. After Sherlock had accused him of not paying attention, John disproved him every day. He recognized often when John would guide a conversation with a client that was beginning to bore Sherlock. He recognized it in the way John organized the refrigerator, and made room in the cupboards for Sherlock’s experiments. He recognized it in the way John knew when it was not a good time to strike up a conversation, and when it was a good time to avoid the flat altogether. John had known him better than anyone ever had, and Sherlock had taken advantage of that fact.

Just when he thought the socially acceptable emotion of sorrow might make an appearance, Sherlock was struck once again by the fact that the wrong man was dead. Mycroft was droning on, and the memorial was nearly through, but Sherlock had to leave. The rage was returning.

Now was the time to let the rage lead him. There would be sufficient time to mourn John after Moriarty's network was dismantled.

He texted Lestrade. _“Baker Street. SH.”_

It was dusk when the DI arrived at the flat. Sherlock had assumed Lestrade would stay for the remainder of the service.

There was no graveside memorial. There were no remains to bury.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade slowly entered the dark flat. Sherlock sat in his chair, as usual, hands pressed together under his chin, eyes unfocused.

Sherlock gestured to the armchair, John’s armchair, across from him.

“Did you mean it?” Sherlock asked, his voice low.

“Mean what?” The DI looked confused.

“That day, you said you wouldn’t dare stop me. Did you mean it?”

Lestrade took a deep breath, considered his words, and slowly, he started, “Yes. I meant it with all of my heart. Moriarty was a monster. As long as his men are out there, he’s still alive. Someone has to end them. It may as well be you.”

Sherlock nodded. He hadn’t expected Lestrade to agree. Even more unexpected was what followed.

“I also meant it when we shook hands. I asked you what do we do now, and I meant it. I’m in. I have certain obvious restrictions because of my career, but any resource I have is yours. John was one of the best men I have ever known. And how he tolerated you, I will never know. He didn’t deserve this. But those maniacs deserve what’s coming to them.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “Very well.” He didn’t know how to respond. Lestrade was willing to risk everything on Sherlock’s ability to bring down Moriarty’s network.

“Sherlock, one more thing.” Lestrade stood to leave. “I know you don’t do emotional… stuff… And I know I can never, ever, fill the gap John left, but just know, if you need a friend, you’ve got one.”

Sherlock sat motionless as Lestrade let himself out. The gravity of the DI's words rested heavy on Sherlock. A friend.

That night Sherlock Holmes shed the only tears he would ever shed over the death of John Watson.

**Author's Note:**

> *SPOILER*  
> If you've ever read anything I've ever written, any note I've ever added, or any comment I've ever responded with, then you know me. You know what I say every single time. Please, don't hate me. Just... Trust me with this. I promise, this time around, you can trust me with your heart.


End file.
